I Like Your Silence
by coolbyrne
Summary: GSR-Sequel to "Off-Beat", though that story isn't entirely a required reading to understand this one.


TITLE: I Like Your Silence

AUTHOR: coolbyrne

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: GSR

SPOILERS: PNN, SoS, BfY

DISTRIBUTION: Archive it if you like.

DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, I'd be channeling my (albeit limited) creative bursts onto the television screen instead of the computer screen. Alas, I do not.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Reading "Off-Beat" really isn't necessary, although this is a sequel to that story. In a nutshell- Catherine gets both Sara and Grissom to a bar, on the pretense of setting them up with someone. Neither one realizes that the other is the "someone". The end. And now we pick it up where Catherine left. Off.

And let me just say thank you so much to my beta reader, papiliondae, who not only made this story better with her suggestions, but also provided the title.

FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism/generous compliments are greatly appreciated. Flames will be mocked in other forums. Feel free to send any combination of these options to: fugitive@ihateclowns.com

SUMMARY: New experiments and a return to the saddle. Sara shows Grissom some signs.

Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,

Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so

Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze

See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know

I loved, but there she goes, and her beauty hurts my heart; 

I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

-D.H Lawrence, "Aware"

*

He watched Catherine walk away until time stretched taut and an innate sense of curiosity brought his gaze back to the woman across the booth.

Sara.

"So, uh… I…," he faltered.

"I'm sorry about this."

His mouth stopped moving as his mind processed her apology. "You are?"

Her head jerked back in surprise. "Well, yeah. I mean, aren't you?"

"Sorry about this?"

"Yeah."

"No."

Taken aback by his reply, her mouth softened into a small smile. "Oh." Figuring by the look on his face that her one word remark wasn't much of an answer, she continued, "I mean, I'm not sorry, either. I just thought, I thought you'd be uncomfortable. I'm sure you weren't expecting… this… any more than I was."

Grissom conceded the point with a nod of his head. Taking a look around his environment, it was as if he realized where he was for the first time. "I wasn't even expecting to be here, truth be told. I was sitting at my desk and the social whirling dervish that is Catherine blew into the office." He closed his eyes at the memory. "Somehow, she double talks me into meeting her for drink, which then manifests itself as a way for Catherine to introduce me to 'Ms. Perfect'. And then-"

"You end up meeting me," Sara interjected.

He opened his eyes, narrowing them slightly as he looked into her own, trying to interpret her meaning. Doubt? Insecurity? Finding he could answer her in a way only she seemed to elicit from him, he said simply, "I end up finding it turned out better than I ever could have hoped."

The smile started in the corner of her mouth before joyfully spreading across her face. Grissom was basking in the warmth of being the beneficiary of such delight when the waiter chose that moment to appear at the table.

"Can I get anything for you, sir?"

Without breaking eye contact with Sara, Grissom replied, "I'll have what she's having."

When the waiter left with the order, Sara teased, "You're very trusting. You have no idea what I might be drinking."

"Iced tea." He answered without hesitation.

"Well, it could have been something else, you know. I might have listened to Catherine and spiced it with a little bling bling or whatever."

Grissom furrowed his brow. "I'll pretend I have a clue as to what you just said."

While the bar was in full swing with people and chatter and music. He took it all in as he searched his mind for something to break the silence that was building between them-anything to engage her in conversation. He finally decided to go the honest route.

"Sorry. I'm, uh… I'm not-"

"-really good at this sort of thing?" she smiled wryly. "It's okay. Neither am I."

He tilted his head. "Oh really?" He noted that she mirrored his gesture. "What about you and… that guy?"

She pressed her lips together in a rather unsuccessful attempt to hide her grin. " 'That guy' has a name. 'Hank'." 

If the name meant anything to Grissom, he was certainly doing a good job at feigning disinterest in it. She might as well have told him the 49ers were out of the playoffs, for all the response he conveyed. And yet she had seen the quick flicker in his eyes, and she knew the truth.

Deciding to let him off the hook, she continued, "Anyway, there's no 'that guy' anymore." There it was again, that flicker, but longer this time, before it returned to the depths of his eyes, hidden once more.

"Oh?"

The playfulness left her voice. "Yeah," she answered flatly.

"Oh. I.. are you… okay with it?"

And just as quickly as it had left her face, the smile returned. Regardless of whatever strange and unspoken feelings he may have for her, she was touched by Grissom's gesture of putting her feelings ahead of his own.

"Yeah," she assured him, "I'm okay with it. How about you?" His eyes widened in surprise. "I heard you were on a date a couple of months ago," she clarified.

He shook his head, wondering what it was about her question that had caused him to draw his first conclusion. Back on track, he dryly asked, "Is that so? And which one of my gossiping social secretaries shared that bit of misinformation with you?"

"Brass." Pause. "Misinformation?"

He thanked the waiter for the drink and took a sip. Placing it down carefully on the table, he could feel her eyes staring intently, waiting for him to continue. "Misinformation. Information that is incorrect or untrue." Knowing full well this was merely a stall tactic on his part that would not appease her, he pursed his lips and finally gave in. "It was a date with disaster, and nothing more."

Silence descended upon them again until Grissom decided to ask, "So tell me, what do you do for a living?"

Sara responded with a laugh that did wonders for his ego. "Is that how your last date went?"

"No, on my last 'date'," he put an blasé stress on the last word, "she asked me what I did for a living."

"Uh-oh."

"What?" Upon seeing her raised eyebrow, he conceded, "It wasn't until I was well into the benefits of larvae on a decomposing body that I realized I had made a mistake."

"Talking about work on a date, you mean."

"No," he answered honestly.

She contemplated the meaning behind his words, but could only shake her head in wonder. Going a different route, she asked, "So just how did Catherine coerce you into this anyway?"

"She told me to look at it like an experiment. How would the outcome be affected if one of the properties were changed."

"And how has the outcome changed?"

"Well, I would rather not make a hypothesis based on so little observation," he answered drolly. "Besides, I haven't gotten to the part about the benefits of larvae on a decomposing body yet."

He interrupted another bout of laughter by asking, "And how about you? What could Catherine possibly say to get you here?"

Sara picked up a spoon and curiously gazed at her warped reflection in it. "She gave me some song and dance about how the best thing to do when you get thrown by the horse is to get back in the saddle."

"Sounds like Catherine's been spending too much time with Nick."

"That's what I thought!"

He wasn't sure how to approach the other question that was hovering in the forefront of his mind, until his nature decided for him. "And just why did the horse throw you off?"

The spoon dropped to the table with a sharp clang. "Geez, Gris, don't hold back on my account." His face softened at the idea he might have said something to offend her, but it didn't stop him from gazing at her, intently and expectantly. She could have met him on this, moment for moment, but decided she just didn't have the energy for it.

"Fine. I'm sure there were a lot of good, reasonable factors." She picked up the spoon again and twisted it several times before continuing with a private smile, "But I think I can trace it back to my smell."

Grissom's brow furrowed. "Your smell? What's wrong with your smell?"

She shook her head. "It's not important."

"You're important to me."

If his use of subject was a Freudian slip, his face showed no sign.

'How does he do that?' she wondered. Seemingly without effort, he was able to find a way into her heart. It was as if she had spent all her energy building up walls, but had left a tiny door for him. And he found it when she least expected it. A different time, a different place, a different set of four words strung into a sentence. But just as it had been that day they stood on the sheet of ice, their breaths forming small clouds between them, his words had startled her into silence.

For all the times they seemed to inhabit the same plane of thought and feeling, when it came down to it, when it came down to them, the language that came so easily to her on every other matter seemed to allude her. She held his eyes with her own, as if trying to communicate through sheer expression alone all that she wanted to say.

"You look like you're trying to send me a telepathic message," he said dryly. Smiling at her small cough of surprise, he tilted his head in the direction of the patio. "Maybe we should go outside where it's a little quieter and the psychic airwaves might be clearer."

Making a face to rebut his sarcasm, she nodded and said, "Yeah. Sounds good. I'm just gonna head to the little girls' room, first."

The small bar had filled considerably, and there was a battle for decibels between music and voices. Not quite catching what Sara had said, Grissom leaned forward and asked, "What?"

She opened her mouth to repeat herself, stopping abruptly as she decided to take a different tack. Positioning her hands below her chin and away from her body, they gracefully cut through the air in fluid motions of gesture and movement.

'I'm going to the bathroom,' she signed, and left the booth before he could close his mouth to reply.

**

In the silence of the bathroom, she considered the consequences of her actions. She had wanted to sign to surprise him, and she hoped it would put him at ease with her. She had no idea where or why he had learned to sign, but it seemed to mean something special to him, and she wanted to show that, because of him, it now meant something special to her. She sighed. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but as she stood there in front of the mirror replaying the moment -and more importantly, his expression- she had wondered if it might have been a mistake.

Weaving her way through the crowd to the patio, she saw him leaning against a railing, his back to the bar, his eyes looking into the darkness. Although she suspected he could sense her presence, she announced her arrival.

"Hey."

He didn't turn. "Hey," he repeated.

She stood beside him, their shoulders discreetly meeting each other and enjoying the connection. Gripping the railing, she looked down at her hands, not only because they were the responsible party in her guilt, but because she couldn't quite look over to him.

"I'm really sorry if I offended you back there."

He turned to her and unable to catch her gaze, he followed it down to her hands, taut with tension. "Sara, you didn't offend me." She continued to stare ruefully down. "Hey," he said softly, reaching over and taking her hands in his. "Hey."

She felt his eyes on her, waiting, and powerless to resist their pull, she looked up and rolled her own. "What?"

He didn't allow her to change the moment. "You didn't offend me." His gaze returned to her hands, now held gently in his own. "When did you learn to sign?"

Sara shrugged as if her heart wasn't pounding furiously in her chest. "After the Clemonds case; the deaf boy. You taught me that it's always important to take something from every experience and add it to what you know so that if the situation ever occurs again, you'll be prepared for it and I'm rambling."

Not for the first time that night, Grissom smiled.

"You have great hands for signing."

Deflecting his praise, she admitted, "I don't really know all that much. I know things like 'bathroom', 'please' and 'thank you', 'where is the train station'."

Now he laughed. "I'll teach you."

"Will you?"

He reaffirmed softly, "I will." 

With her hands still at home in his, she didn't need the telepathic ability she had so longed for earlier. One glance into his eyes spoke volumes. It was something audible that broke the link between them.

"You're beeping," she informed him.

He reached down to check his pager, but refused to forsake all physical connection with her. He held her hand in his left as his right lifted up the offending piece of technology.

"It's probably just Catherine wondering how the experiment is going," he quipped. Checking the brief message, he sighed, "It's work. I've got to go in."

"Hey, I understand."

"I know. Thank you."

She linked her arm with his and said, "C'mon. I'll walk you to your car."

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

"Fine," she relented, "I'll let you walk me to my car."

**

When they reached her vehicle, Sara turned to Grissom and said, "You know, Catherine told me I should have let her drive me here, because that would mean my date would have to drive me home."

He held open her door and met the suggestive entendre in the statement. "Next time, I think you should listen to her." Seeing the look of astonishment on her face, he quipped, " 'I like your silence; it the more shows off your wonder'."

She found enough familiarity in the quote to close her mouth which had dropped open from the aforementioned wonder. "Is that Shakespeare's way of saying he likes women who don't talk so much?"

"No, not at all," he said with a laugh.

Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. "You don't want those words to be the last you say to me."

"Hmmmm," he replied and pretended to ponder the most strategic move. He opened his mouth several times, as if about to speak, but thinking better of it. Her dramatic sigh broke his amusement and he looked at her in all seriousness. 

" 'Her beauty hurts my heart'."

The silence seemed to stretch forever as she stared at him, agape.

" 'I like your silence'," he began again, before she smacked his arm. "Okay, so it's not Shakespeare. It's D.H Lawrence."

Her attempt to look stern fell woefully flat as the warmth from her heart crept up into her face. Fooling no one, she pondered this before acknowledging, "Better. That's better. You can go now."

"My lady," he said, as he gave a small bow and began to walk away.

Not thirty seconds later, he stood at his car and unlocked the door. Looking over the seven cars that separated them, he discovered she was still watching him.

Though unnecessary, he called out her name anyway. "Sara!"

She raised her eyebrows in response.

He lifted his hands above the roof of his car and his fingers carved out a series of movements. With a wink, he got into his car, turned the key in the ignition, and drove away.

She must've broken all state speeding records in order to get home. A succession of clicks on her computer revealed one of the sites that had helped her learn the little signing she knew. Finding the word to match the sign was more difficult than the other way around, but her persistence and curiosity finally paid off. What she found might have brought the biggest smile to her face all night.

'You smell great.'

-end


End file.
